


Tautology

by Flywoman



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Depression, F/M, First Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-02-12
Updated: 1998-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywoman/pseuds/Flywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place between "Schizogeny" and "Chinga."  Scully's ongoing<br/>depression following the discovery and loss of Emily attracts unwelcome<br/>attention from Mulder and her mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks: To Becca for encouragement and much-appreciated editorial comments, Eric for lessons in dream writing and a certain black dress, and Linda for late night phone calls and that spirited rendition of Kipler's "X Files Story."

FBI Headquarters  
Washington DC  
4:00 pm

Dana Scully glanced over at her partner, sitting captivated by a small  
collection of dusty slides, for about the hundredth time that afternoon  
and sighed. She could hear the faint tick of her wristwatch counting down  
the seconds to yet another long, lonely weekend that stretched before her.  
Dana remembered a time when every day was full of surprises and  
challenges, when sometimes it had been all she could do to catch her  
breath between terror and wonder on the way to their next assignment. She  
recalled a time when she and her partner had spent most of their waking  
hours together, between traveling on cases, working late and on weekends,  
splitting Chinese takeout, trading bedtime telephone calls, and  
occasionally hitting one of DC's many museums in their rare free evenings.  
Mulder's company hadn't always been easy, but it had never been boring.  
What had happened to them?

It had started, Dana thought, with the cancer - with her initial  
diagnosis, his concern, her fierce insistence on self-reliance, her horror  
of pity. She had closed herself off from him so that she could repeat her  
mantra of assurance, "I'm fine, Mulder," over and over until even he at  
least pretended to believe it. Then her illness had progressed, and she  
had been drawn into the inexorable spiral of disease and despair, too  
tired to acknowledge her own feelings, much less his anguish. She had  
lashed out at him when confronted with the vast, dead hollow her life  
seemed to have become, a meaningless frantic orbit with him at its core.

To give him due credit, he had never let her see him give up. And his  
faith in their power to prevail had been rewarded, at least for the time  
being: long after the doctors and her own judgment had pronounced her  
doom, what she could only view as a miracle had occurred, and her health  
had seeped back little by little as the tumour dwindled to nothingness.  
And he had been so tender, so fond, so gentle with her during the days  
that they had feared would be her last, that when this respite arrived  
unheralded, she had emerged from her daze of drugs and pain to a new  
understanding of what she wanted from him, from life. She had been so  
close to losing her life with him forever, and now she had a second  
chance to discard her mask of professional detachment for a new, dangerous  
honesty.

And she had tried, oh she had tried. Those first few days, when she saw  
so little of him because he was perpetually leaving her presence to weep,  
whether in joy at her recovery or in some darker emotion, he would never  
say - they had been difficult beyond her strength to fight. She had known  
that in his struggle to expose those responsible for her cancer, to  
uncover a cure, he had stumbled upon things that had caused him great pain  
that he would not share with her. Thus, cruelly, her own tricks of  
evasion were turned back upon her, just when she felt ready to broach the  
walls of silence between them.

Their first case together after the FBI had been turned upside down by  
their testimonies had appeared unexpectedly on the way to a communication  
workshop in Florida. Mulder, who normally would have found some excuse  
(including but not limited to forging a note from his physician) to miss  
the conference, had decided to attend for the first time in recent  
history, probably, she suspected, as a concession to the recent upheavals  
in their working relationship, their need for a little downtime to get  
away from Washington and back on track with each other. She had been  
quiet on the ride down, and nervous, eager, half-tempted to ignore the  
presence of their fellow agents and rest her head on Mulder's comfortable  
shoulder as he dozed, flinching with guilty surprise every time his hand  
accidentally brushed against hers. She had enjoyed the interplay between  
the enthusiastic pair in the front seat and her reluctant partner,  
whose growing annoyance revealed itself in his increasingly flippant  
replies to their laughably sincere inquiries. She herself had been eager  
for once to arrive at their destination, knowing that, as ridiculous as  
the exercises would be, she would be doing them with Mulder, which would  
doubtless have the effect of livening things up considerably for everyone  
involved, as well as satisfying her wish for more personal interaction  
with him.

All of these thoughts had been running through her head right up until  
Mulder hopped out of the car at a roadblock and stalked off into the  
forest on the trail of an unidentifiable predator. She had thought - had  
hoped, she forced herself to admit in retrospect - that Mulder's  
insistence on remaining had been a last-minute excuse to miss the  
conference. She had freshened up that night, fussed over a tray of white  
wine and cheese, and knocked on his motel room door with the expectation  
that he would be eagerly awaiting her. But her entrance had sparked no  
outward signs of romantic interest, only crude quips and clumsy banter,  
and the minute she's made the mistake of mentioning the Bureau's  
discouragement of opposite sex fraternization after hours while on  
assignment, he'd panicked - she could see it plain as day - and launched  
into a lecture on predators before ditching her to race off on his own.  
Damn him. She had been so hurt, so humiliated. The worst part was not  
knowing how aware he had been of her intent, and her complete inability to  
investigate the subject without betraying her own feelings of slighted  
attraction.

Things had gotten better between them, but only because she  
chose to bury those feelings, resolved to fall back into their old,  
familiar patterns for better or worse. Mulder had relaxed visibly after  
that, even to the point of not protesting too much when their cold night  
alone together in the woods saw him cradled in her slender arms for  
warmth (his) and comfort (hers). The fact that he had been able to sleep  
through the night while she sat hypervigilant, her aroused blood thrumming  
through her veins, spoke volumes to her about the apparent discrepancy in  
their feelings for one another. After that, she had tabled the prospect  
of a more intimate relationship with Mulder for the time being, at least -  
her pride needed time to recover. But the price of silence was the  
gradual build-up of the old barrier, the thick, brittle shell around her  
emotions that he, out of respect for her or maybe fear, would never really  
work to batter down.

So their new time together had become stale and sterile, neither of them  
daring to ask the difficult questions of the other. There was no overt  
hostility or blame, as there had been before her sickness and  
hospitalization, but there was little joy or spontaneity in their  
interactions either, with Dana withdrawn and aloof, and Mulder treading on  
eggshells around her fragility. For the first time in years, she had not  
gotten him a Christmas present or invited him to celebrate the holidays  
with her. Of course, she had flown to San Diego to visit her brother's  
family, but she knew that should not have stopped her from arranging to  
spend some time with Mulder. On the other hand, she knew what had  
prevented her - again, that old enemy and ally, her pride, which murmured  
rebelliously that he could have been the one to reach out first, to take  
some initiative in their relationship for once.

And of course, that trip to California had been a disaster of revelations,  
had come closer to destroying her than all the strange and terrible  
journeys they had taken together. The discovery and loss of her daughter,  
the cruel truths from which Mulder could no longer protect her, might yet  
prove her undoing. Since that time, Dana had watched her flesh melt off  
her bones, the bruised hollows reform beneath her eyes. The sight was a  
familiar one, but this, she knew, was no malevolent recurrence of her  
cancer, but the progression of a far more insidious and personal disease,  
one which consumed her hope, her joy, her will. Mulder's worst jokes no  
longer coaxed the ghost of a smile from her lips, much less her eyes. She  
wandered through their cases like an automaton, dogging his steps out of  
habit more than loyalty. It became more and more difficult to drag  
herself out of bed in the morning, and she found herself crawling under  
the sheets earlier every night. A detached voice in the back of her head  
pronounced "clinical depression" with bland solemnity and ticked off her  
symptoms, "anhedonia, aphagia, polysomnia" one by one, and she agreed with  
it listlessly but did nothing, spoke to no one. The only other person in  
a position to notice her condition was her mother; to keep her from  
worrying, Dana hoisted herself briefly out of her bleakness once a week  
and called her, prattling on about work and a book she's read five months  
ago. If her mother sensed that she was putting on a one-woman play, she  
said nothing to Dana.

Lost in these reflections, Dana failed to observe her erstwhile partner  
slip off his glasses, rise quietly from his chair, and cross the room to  
lean over her shoulder. When he spoke, lips almost brushing her right  
ear, she jumped so violently that she knocked her coffee mug to the floor.  
"Scully - hey, Scully, what's the matter with you?" He knelt to  
retrieve the broken pieces from the rapidly spreading stain on the carpet.

Dana lurched to her feet and dredged up sufficient energy to glare down at  
him. "There's nothing the matter with me," she replied icily. "What the  
hell did you mean by sneaking up on me like that?" Without waiting for a  
reply, she stalked out of their office to retrieve some paper towels from  
the basement common room. By the time she got back, Mulder was again in  
his chair hunched over the slides, his face an unreadable mask except for  
his muddy green eyes, which flicked distractedly from one image to the  
next without seeing any of them. Dana's initial burst of adrenaline had  
run its course, leaving her drained and shaky. She ignored her partner's  
obvious upset and mopped up the worst of the coffee, then dropped the  
soiled towels in the wastebasket. It was only 4:25, but she found herself  
straightening her work area and packing up her briefcase to go home.  
Mulder hunched more tightly around his lightbox but said nothing. Dana  
struggled into her coat and scarf, paused briefly at the door to look  
back. Mulder did not glance up. She left, closing the door a little too  
firmly behind her.

The late afternoon traffic out of DC was terrible. Funny how she'd never  
realized one of the advantages of working late with Mulder - by the time  
she usually got on the road, rush hour was long over and the crush had  
dwindled to a trickle. By the time Dana pulled into her driveway, it was  
nearly six. It seemed to take forever to get herself out of the driver's  
seat, up the walkway, into the building. She had no mail except for a  
request for alumni donations from her alma mater. Once inside her own  
apartment, Dana shucked off her clothes piece by piece, leaving them  
crumpled where they fell. She was too tired to cook, which was probably  
just as well since the thought of food made her feel vaguely nauseated.  
She settled for a mug of mint tea and a hot bath with rosemary scented  
oil. To drown out her thoughts she put on Sting in the living room and  
raised the volume so that his voice enfolded her down the hall, slumped in  
the tub. <If I ever lose my faith in you... Bad choice. That song  
never failed to remind her of Mulder. She sank down in the warm water  
until only her knees and face defied the chill of her first floor  
apartment.

Half an hour later she awoke, shivering in the cooled bathwater. <It's  
hard to say it... I hate to say it... but it's probably me. She dressed  
hurriedly in flannel pajamas, grimacing at the gooseflesh that prickled  
her arms and legs. It was not even seven o' clock, but she decided to go  
to bed. Maybe things would look better in the morning. Maybe she  
wouldn't have the energy to care.

It felt like only a few seconds passed before her phone rang, but when she  
squinted at the clock the display read 11:21 PM. Her head felt heavy and  
cottony. She waited under the covers for the answering machine to kick  
in. "Scully, it's me. I know that you're there so pick up, okay?" A  
pause. Then, more tentatively: "I hope I didn't wake you. I just wanted  
to see how you were doing. I'll, uh, call you tomorrow." The tape  
clicked off just as Dana lifted the receiver, her comforter clutched  
around her shoulders. Damn.

"Mulder, it's me," she said anyway, into the sudden silence. She sat  
there on the edge of the bed, tears trickling helplessly down her cheeks,  
until the dial tone broke in. Then she carefully replaced the receiver  
and squirmed back between the sheets, feeling ridiculous and sleepy and  
terribly alone.

 

Dana woke to the steady sound of rain. Too much sleep had made her groggy  
and slow. She forced herself to get up, wrapped her white terrycloth  
bathrobe around her shivering frame. As she passed the full length  
mirror, she glanced at her reflection, then hurriedly moved on to the  
kitchen, shaken. She did not know this woman, this pale, scrawny creature  
with protuberant blue eyes in a pinched, lined face.

She hesitated over breakfast. She had not eaten anything solid since  
lunch the day before, a few bites of chicken Caesar salad at the  
commissary. Now she poured herself a bowl of cornflakes, figuring that  
she would be able to manage that at least. She choked down half of it  
before losing interest and throwing the rest away. When she went to put  
the milk away, she caught a whiff of rotting organic matter from her  
fridge. She would have to clean several weeks' worth of uneaten  
vegetables out of her crisper. Later. Dana closed the refrigerator  
door, feeling a twinge of relief as the edges sealed shut, cutting her  
off from the stench of death.

It was still only - she checked her watch - 10:13. What on earth had she  
done with herself last weekend? Oh yes, there had been that bizarre case  
\- "Psycho" meets "Attack of the Killer Trees," destined to go down in her  
files as one of her all-time least favorites. She sank into the couch and  
flicked the tv on. Sixty channels and nothing to watch. She left the  
Discovery channel on but lowered the volume to a soothing background  
murmur. She would read something. Two untouched issues of JAMA and a  
pile of junk mail gathered dust on her coffee table. Nothing appealed.

Dana summoned a great effort and dragged herself into the guest room,  
scanned the bookshelves containing her old favorites. At last, closing  
her eyes, she selected a volume and opened it at random. She found  
herself gazing at a dogeared page in an anthology of poetry: "Childless  
Woman" by Sylvia Plath. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry; a single  
harsh sound escaped her that could have been either, or both. She  
replaced the book, grabbed a well-worn copy of *Moby Dick* instead, and  
shuffled back to the living room. But as she turned to the introduction,  
her fingers stopped on the page bearing her father's inscription, written  
to her as a little girl so long ago. She could hear his voice as  
clearly as if she were sitting in his lap, his stubble scratching her  
cheek: "Starbuck, this is for you. You're my loyal right hand and I  
couldn't keep this motley crew in line without you. With  
love and pride, your captain - Ahab." Her vision blurred and tears  
forced their way out of her eyes to stream down her cheeks. No matter how  
much time elapsed since her father's death, the memories never seemed to  
grow less painfully bittersweet. If he were only here now, he would have  
found a way to return Dana to herself. Hell, he could have commanded her  
to cheer up, and in her unquestioning faith and loyalty she would probably  
have obeyed. She missed him so much.

Gradually Dana became aware that her phone was ringing. She wiped her  
face on her sleeve and reached for the handset, then paused, remembering  
the unexplained phone calls she'd received at Christmas from a woman who  
sounded exactly like her deceased elder sister, Melissa. Since then she  
had allowed her machine to pick up most of her calls when she was alone.  
But she was being absurd. More likely than not, it was Mulder extending  
the olive branch. She knew better than to expect any kind of apology from  
him, but maybe he'd at least say something mollifying. She answered on  
the fourth ring. "Scully."

"Dana?"

"Mom?" Dana gulped. Shit, she'd forgotten to call for their weekly chat  
last night. And her mother would know at once that she had been crying.  
Mom always knew.

"Dana, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Mom," she lied, not without a brief pang of conscience. "How  
are you?"

"Well, actually, I'm not fine. I called because I was concerned about  
you."

"About me, why?" She felt panic creeping up on her.

"Fox called me at 11:30 last night, he was worried about you. He said he  
was sorry to wake me but that you weren't answering your phone and that  
you hadn't been yourself lately."

Great, just great, she thought sourly. The Mother of All Conspiracies  
paled in comparison to the Conspiracy of All Mothers. "He called you?"  
she repeated stupidly.

"Yes. Dana? I know that Fox can seem very self-absorbed at times, but  
he's really worried about you. He said that you seemed very unhappy, that  
you'd lost weight..."

"Mom, I'm okay, really. I'll be fine."

"Dana, it's been weeks since I've seen you... Let me take you to lunch  
today, we'll talk, like we used to. We'll straighten this whole thing  
out. How does that sound?"

"I don't know, Mom, I..." Dana thought of a million excuses, errands to  
run, plans she'd made, but she pictured her mother, running her fingers  
through her thinning brown hair and biting at her lip on the other end of  
the line, and used none of them. Her mother and Mulder. She just didn't  
have the energy to fight both of them. "I don't know how hungry I'll be."

"We'll find something to tempt you." Her mother sounded so relieved that  
Dana felt guilt wash over her in a shallow wave. "I'll pick you up in an  
hour, okay?"

"Uh - okay, Mom, okay."

"I'll see you then."

Dana stared at the phone after her mother had hung up, feeling a cold knot  
of anger twist more and more tightly in her belly. Only when she could be  
certain that it would not expand to devour her did she press the speed  
dial button for her partner's home phone. She stood and began pacing,  
waiting for him to pick up.

"Yeah."

"Mulder, it's me."

"Scully," he said in a voice that managed to sound glad, relieved, and  
guilty all at once, "where are you?"

"I'm at home, and-"

"Where were you last night? I called three times." He had the gall to  
sound accusatory, as if she had no right to a life away from work and him.  
Dana reached down and found her rage.

"Mulder, let's get one thing straight. I do not need you keeping tabs on  
my whereabouts, I do not need you checking up on me, and I sure as *hell*  
don't need you calling up my *mother* in the *middle* of the night to tell  
her that she needs to take better care of me!" Her voice rose to a shout.

"Scully, I wouldn't be trying to look after you if you were doing a better  
job of looking after yourself."

"What is THAT supposed to mean?"

"I think you know," her partner replied evenly.

Dana hung up. She had no idea that she was going to until the handset had  
crashed back into its base, the red light dead. She was so amazed that  
she had to sit down again. She had never, in their worst moments,  
deliberately hung up on Mulder before. Of course, it wasn't like he'd  
never cut her short when he found it expedient. Once, when he'd thought  
she'd betrayed him, he'd even done it viciously, to hurt her. But until  
now, she had never been so at a loss as to do this to him.

For some reason, hanging up on Mulder cheered Dana up considerably. She  
even hummed a little to herself as she showered quickly and blew dry her  
hair. Her hair: now that was behaving strangely. It seemed both limp and  
brittle; strands of it fell out every time she so much as ran her fingers  
through it. Maybe it was some weird kind of allergy. She wondered  
whether she ought to switch conditioners.

Back in her bedroom, Dana studiously ignored her wan reflection in the  
mirror and focused her attention on the contents of her closet. Suits,  
suits, and more suits. How long had it been since she'd bought something  
nice to wear out, for fun? She had nothing in her wardrobe between  
uptight female FBI agent and slovenly bum. Well, it was her mother, for  
heaven's sake. She'd just find a clean sweatshirt and a pair of jeans and  
make do. When was the last time she had done her laundry? Unwashed  
clothes sat in untidy heaps all over her bedroom floor. When had her  
apartment become such a pigsty? Mulder would have felt right at home.  
Dana spent the next half-hour sorting the dirty clothes from the  
reasonably fresh, washing the stacks of dishes in the sink, and cleaning  
out the refrigerator. She was just lugging the garbage outside to the  
dumpster when her mother pulled up.

"Hey, Mom," Dana called, summoning a genuine smile. Her mother's make-up  
couldn't hide the telltale shadows under her eyes. She didn't sleep well,  
Dana thought, and then the guilty realization hit her, she's been worrying  
about ME.

"Dana," Margaret Scully said breathlessly, and hugged her daughter. "Do  
you think I could use your bathroom before we leave?"

"Sure, Mom, I, uh, have to wash my hands and grab my coat anyway."

"At least the rain's stopped for the moment," Margaret observed, following  
Dana inside. "I could barely see when I drove to Mass this morning."

"Since when do you go to Mass on Saturday morning?" Dana asked, surprised,  
then bit her lip. Since Fox Mulder called to inform you that your  
daughter needed professional help, she answered herself, scowling.

"I won't be a minute," Margaret called over her shoulder on her way to the  
bathroom.

Dana felt perversely tempted to call her soon-to-be-late partner just for  
the satisfaction of hanging up on him again, but refrained. She was glad  
that she'd had a chance to straighten up the apartment before her mother  
entered it, anyway. If Margaret Scully had seen the degree to which her  
normally fastidious daughter had allowed entropy to spiral out of control,  
she probably would have skipped lunch and driven Dana straight to a  
psychiatrist. As it was, there would be some difficult acting ahead of  
her. She had to seem reassuring, yet plausible. Think Mulder agreeing  
with Skinner just before he walks out and does the exact opposite, she  
told herself, almost grinning at the thought. She scrubbed her hands at  
the kitchen sink, grabbed her wallet and keys, and pulled her trenchcoat  
from the hall closet.

 

They were both quiet in the car, feeling the strain of acting natural in a  
contrived situation. They had argued politely over the choice of a  
restaurant; Margaret Scully had prevailed, pointing out that if they ate  
lunch at the mall downtown, they could do a little shopping together  
afterwards. Having just complained about her lack of wardrobe, Dana could  
hardly argue. She was mildly surprised to find that she was actually  
looking forward to this outing. But once in the car, she felt somewhat  
shy about mentioning any of the things on her mind, mainly her recent  
conversation with Mulder and his call to her mother last night; and her  
mother seemed equally uncertain as to how to broach the subject of Dana's  
well-being. Margaret did speak up a couple of times to mention the  
upcoming baptism of Bill's baby and the fact that Charles might be getting  
a promotion. But for the most part, they rode in silence, each woman lost  
in her own private thoughts.

The rain started up again just as Margaret pulled into a narrow parking  
space. Without speaking, they linked arms and ran for the shelter of the  
restaurant under a single sturdy umbrella. Once inside, they chose a  
booth by the window, again without pausing for thought or consultation,  
and glanced perfunctorily at their menus. Iced tea and a spinach salad  
for Dana, lemonade and quiche lorraine for her mother. Having placed  
their orders, they gazed at the table, out the window, then caught each  
other's eyes and smiled sheepishly.

"You don't look that unhappy to me," Margaret ventured.

"But I am, Mom," Dana replied to her own surprise and chagrin. She  
frowned. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. But having thus  
begun, she felt strangely compelled to continue as her mother gazed at  
her across the table with affection and concern. "At least, I have  
been. Ever since I lost Emily, I... It's been harder and harder to get up  
every morning, Mom." Her voice quavered, and she took a deep breath to  
steady it. "I realize that I only knew her for a little while, I know  
that she was never truly mine to lose, even if by some... by some tragic  
miracle she was my daughter. But those few days with her woke me to all  
of these feelings that I'd had since... since my disappearance, and  
since the cancer. I started to wonder why I *wasn't* her mother those  
three years... or at least, why I didn't have a child, a husband, a family  
like you had. Do you know what the adoption agent told me when she came  
to the house? She said that I wouldn't be considered a good candidate  
because of my lifestyle, because I was a single woman working long hours  
in a high stress profession. They didn't even care that I would have been  
responsible, that I would have loved her..."

"You're still young, Dana," Margaret said soothingly.

"Mom, I can never have children! Do you know what that feels like? And  
Mulder knew! He knew about it, about what they did to me, and he never  
told me!" Realizing that her voice had risen, Dana lowered it to an  
intense whisper. "He said that he was trying to protect me. I don't know  
if I can ever forgive him for that."

"Oh, Dana," Margaret sighed. "You've already forgiven Fox ten times over.  
The one you're having trouble forgiving is yourself."

Right there in Russell's, Dana started to cry, hating herself for it but  
unable to stop. "Oh, Mom," she whimpered, "what have I done with my  
life? How could I have let this go on for so long?"

Margaret took the trembling hand of her normally stoic daughter and  
squeezed it firmly. "Dana. You *have* done something with your life.  
You finished medical school, you've been very dedicated to your work and  
loyal to your partner, you've kept your integrity and your courage in the  
face of incredible loss and suffering. I know that. Fox knows it too,  
sweetheart, and he loves and respects you for it just as I do. He just  
hasn't always been the best at recognizing and expressing his own emotions  
despite his talents at analyzing those of others."

Dana had been growing calmer as she listened to her mother's words, but at  
the mention of Mulder the bleakness descended again. "Mom, Mulder is -  
sometimes I don't know how I can face him at work day after day anymore.  
Sometimes I... sometimes I think that I hate him..." she whispered. Then,  
passionately, "He claims to respect me, he wants me to trust him, yet I  
know that he's keeping secrets from me every minute of every day! What  
else am I going to find out a year from now, or two? What else has been  
done to me that I can't even acknowledge and mourn? How could he LET them  
hurt me?!"

Her mother's arms were around her all at once; Dana was being rocked and  
soothed like a fretful child. She knew that she must look ridiculous, a  
thirty-three year old woman bawling her eyes out and being held by her  
mother in public, but for the moment she didn't care. She felt loved.  
Safe.

"Dana, Dana. Do you blame Fox for what happened to you?"

Yes. No. He should have been home that night. He wouldn't have arrived  
in time anyway. He should have reached us on the mountain before... He  
would have if it weren't for that rat Krycek. He should have told me told  
me told me. "I don't know, Mom," she answered finally, truthfully,  
gulping down a sob. "I didn't think I did. Now I'm not so sure."

"What scares you so much about admitting that you may have excellent  
reasons for being angry at him?"

Anger. Anger was the enemy. It robbed her of her control. "I don't  
know, Mom," she said again, wiping her face and blowing her nose into her  
napkin. "Maybe I just don't like admitting that I've given my loyalty and  
the best years of my life to someone about whom I've developed such  
doubts. He says he needs me, but I can't continue to sacrifice all the  
other aspects of my life forever not knowing if he-" Dana stopped and bit  
her lip, realizing what she had been about to say.

"Not knowing," Margaret finished for her gently, "if he will ever be able  
and willing to give you what *you* need?" Dana bowed her head. Margaret  
gave her a little shake. "Dana, you're a very intelligent young woman,  
and realizing these things leaves you two basic choices. One: you can  
leave Fox and the X-files and never look back, which I'm sure you've  
seriously considered doing at least occasionally. Or two, you can  
confront Fox with these feelings like the brave girl you are and see  
whether he understands and shares them. If he doesn't, well, you've  
exposed yourself but not fatally, and you've still got the first option.  
And if he does... well, if he does, you can take it from there, I'm sure."

Despite her sudden nervousness, Dana found herself grinning suddenly,  
infectiously. Then her eyes narrowed. "Mom, what exactly did Mulder say  
to you when he called last night?"

Margaret smiled back and gave her daughter one last squeeze. "Now, now,"  
she chided, "what kind of mother would I be if I betrayed his confidences  
now, thereby ensuring that he will never trust me with them in the  
future?" She scooted back into her own seat just as the waiter arrived  
with their lunches.

The rest of their meal passed in companionable chatter, in contrast to  
their earlier mood of tense anticipation. They spent much of the time  
speculating about Fox Mulder's actual feelings about the idea of a more  
intimate relationship with Dana and his discouraging personal history.  
Dana contended that the disappearance of his sister, his parents' divorce,  
his disastrous college fling with Phoebe Green, and her own abduction and  
near death had caused him to inextricably link love with loss and  
personal failure; any close relationship entailed the possibility of  
abandonment and also, paradoxically, guilt. She also suspected, though  
she did not voice this thought aloud, that he was something of a victim of  
the Madonna-whore complex, so that even if he were attracted to her, he  
would never act on his feelings lest he soil her and thus be forced to  
lose respect for her. This might explain his reliance on impersonal  
sexual encounters, his predilection for pornography, his apparent  
inability to commit to actual relationships with real women. Margaret  
Scully, on the other hand, took a more optimistic view of the situation.  
In her opinion, Fox was simply terrified by the idea that any change in  
the dynamics of their relationship could lead to its disintegration, that  
in eschewing the old, the safe, the familiar, he might inadvertantly  
lose their friendship - an outcome that he feared might well destroy him.  
But she chose not to tell Dana of the night he had appeared to her, gun in  
hand, ready to end his own life in order to atone for the lesson that he  
had been taught at his partner's expense. Either way, their mutual  
conclusion was that persuasion might be possible, with strength and  
patience, but it would hardly be simple. Still, Dana could feel herself  
invigorated, ready to rise to the challenge anew.

After lunch, they wandered out into the mall itself, window-shopping,  
occasionally pausing to point out a smart jacket or a sturdy pair of  
shoes. As they passed Seychelle's, an expensive store devoted to original  
dress designs for the petite sophisticate, Dana stopped suddenly and  
cought her mother's eye. In the window hung a black velvet dress, cut  
high in front but with an open back that plunged into a short flared  
skirt. Dana had not bought an evening dress in over five years, but the  
minute she saw this one, she knew that she had to have it - it would set  
off her auburn hair and fair skin beautifully, and with a pair of black  
velvet heels it would be perfect for dancing. She dragged her mother into  
the store, almost giggling, and thumbed rapidly through the rack looking  
for her size.

Once in the dresing stall, however, Dana made an unpleasant discovery.  
The dress, which should have encased her form perfectly and fit smoothly  
to her curves, hung loosely from her now-gaunt frame. She felt her cheeks  
go hot with shame. She really had let herself go to hell this past few  
weeks. Nevertheless, she shakily opened the door and poked her head out.  
Margaret got up from her chair and eyed her daughter critically.

"Why, Dana, you're practically swimming in it. I could have sworn that  
was a 5/6 - turn around." Without thinking, Dana spun obediently to face  
the stall's mirror again, and it was only when she heard her mother's  
swift intake of breath as she fumbled with the back of the dress for the  
label that she realized her mistake. She raised her guilty eyes to the  
shocked face of Margaret, who had frozen behind her, gaze locked on the  
small of her daughter's back. For a few seconds the older woman could not  
seem to find her voice. At last, just as Dana felt ready to scream an  
apology, Mrs. Scully asked quietly, "When and where did you get this?"  
She nudged her daughter slightly to turn her so that both of them had a  
clear view of the ouroboros tattoo peeping from the top of the skirt.

Dana swallowed. The initial dismay over her acute weight loss had been  
drowned out by feelings of acute embarrassment and childish defiance. She  
had never intended her mother to see this, this souvenir of a drunken one  
night stand with a man who had nearly been her murderer. She had somehow  
managed to keep this secret in spite of her nearly fatal illness, the  
numerous trips to the hospital, even her last few days of agony and terror  
before Mulder had succeeded in finding a cure. And now, here she was,  
stupidly exposed in a dress that should have looked saucy and elegant but  
which, on her pale and abused body, succeeded only in looking pathetic.  
Without answering, she gently shrugged off her mother's fingers and  
re-entered the stall, shutting the door firmly behind her. She stripped  
off the dress as dispassionately as if it were a soiled surgical gown,  
feeling vaguely nauseated, and pulled on her own comfortable sweatshirt  
and jeans. When she rejoined her mother, she could not look at her. They  
walked back to Mrs. Scully's car without speaking.

 

Once they were back on the road, though, Dana realized how silly she was  
being to let the matter of the tattoo affect her behavior around her  
mother. After all, she was a grown woman, not a rebellious teenager, and  
she did not need her mother's approval of her actions, or even her  
understanding. It was ridiculous to evince such shame because of a  
frivolous, harmless (well, ultimately harmless), impulsive thing she'd  
done one night on a whim. She recognized that her present strong emotions  
resulted from the circumstances surrounding that night - her estrangement  
from Mulder, her feelings of impotence and her rage at being taken for  
granted by the one person for whom she'd sacrificed almost everything -  
not the act of getting the tattoo itself. That act was taboo, yes,  
deliciously forbidden, but she could face its consequences like an  
adult.

"Mom," she said now, "about what you saw back there - it is a tattoo. I  
had it done last spring, on impulse, just after I first suspected that I  
might have developed my cancer. I think that I got it mostly to prove to  
myself that there was more to me than he - than Mulder - realized, that  
there were sides to me and to my life that he had no knowledge of or  
control over. At the time it was very exciting-" Dana blushed as she was  
hit by a sudden vivid memory of just how exciting it had in fact been  
"-but now it just seems stupid." She sighed. "In the end, I guess the  
fact that I felt compelled to do something because I wanted to prove that  
not everything was about him just goes to show that it actually is."

Margaret hadn't taken her eyes off the road - the rain had returned  
mid-afternoon with a vengeance - but she smiled a little sadly at this and  
replied, "Dana, I was just being an old busybody. You don't have to  
justify yourself to me. And there is much more to you than Fox sometimes  
appreciates. But I hope that you find more effective ways to communicate  
your frustrations to him one of these days!"

Dana had to laugh. "You're right, Mom. I'll try."

"We're almost at your exit," Margaret pointed out after a moment's quiet.  
"Do you want to pick anything up on the way home?"

"Ummm... yeah," her daughter said thoughtfully. "Can we stop off at  
Antonio's for a bottle of wine?"  



	2. Asymmetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuation of the storyline begun in "Tautology Part I:  
> Reflections," this time from Mulder's POV. An invitation from Scully  
> results in a drunken outburst, a close encounter, and an unexpected  
> sleepover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks: To the usual suspects, Becca, Eric, and Linda, for continual  
> prodding and much-appreciated encouragement, and to my roommates Sarah  
> and Kirsten for keeping me honest and being infinitely patient with my  
> latest addiction.
> 
> Dedication: To Hector, the last word in UST, who initiated me into  
> the mysteries of Van Morrison on that marvelous night years ago.
    
    
    Fox Mulder had dozed off on his sagging sofa to the steady sounds  
    of rain sometime around the middle of the afternoon.  When the warble of  
    the telephone yanked him out of a sound sleep, he was surprised to note  
    that it was completely dark and that the film he had been watching was  
    long over.  For a moment, he considered letting it ring until the machine  
    picked up, but curiosity won out.  He threw off his afghan, rubbed the  
    sleep out of his eyes, and sauntered across the room.  "Mulder."
    
    "Mulder, it's me."
    
    "Hey, Scully," he replied, surprised.  He had been having serious second  
    thoughts about the rather frivolous message he'd left on her machine  
    that morning; the fact that she hadn't called him earlier had  
    only confirmed his fear that she had not been amused.  But then, maybe  
    she'd been out.  "Where are you?"
    
    "I'm at home."  There was a pause.  Mulder waited, wondering whether he  
    was about to be chewed out.  But then, to his relief and considerable  
    surprise, she went on, "I was wondering what you were doing."
    
    "Doing, Scully?" he hedged.  This would have been a great opportunity for  
    a bad come-on line, but he still wasn't quite sure what kind of a mood she  
    was in.
    
    "I mean, tonight."  She sounded nervous for some reason.
    
    "Nothing special," he answered, which was true.  "Watch a movie maybe."
    
    Another pause, this one longer.  "Would you like to come over?"
    
    "You mean, over to your place?" His voice came out sounding too surprised,  
    almost breaking on the last word.  Smooth, Mulder.
    
    "Um, yeah... I have a fireplace and the forecast is heavy rain until  
    tomorrow morning, so I thought we could, um, roast some weenies and  
    marshmallows or something."  Was it his imagination, or was her voice  
    wavering slightly?
    
    "Um, yeah, okay, Scully.  You want me to bring anything?"
    
    "Just yourself-" her voice suddenly fell as though she had moved the  
    mouthpiece to arm's length "-and maybe a sleeping bag."  Click.
    
    Mulder stared thoughtfully down at the receiver.  Something was definitely  
    going on here.  Scully's voice had sounded so odd, tentative, and her  
    choice of words rang some sort of mild alarm in the back of his head.  
    When had they had a conversation along those lines before?  He frowned to  
    himself as he puttered around the apartment, rummaging for clean blue  
    jeans, his keys, his wallet.  Oh well.  Maybe it would come to him later.
    
      
    When he pulled up in front of Scully's apartment building, Mulder could  
    see the dim flicker of firelight through her first floor living room  
    window.  Even as he slammed the car door, he caught a glimpse of a  
    silohuette flashing briefly in the window before disappearing in a small  
    flurry of curtains.  Curiouser and curiouser, he mused, slogging up the  
    path to her building through the downpour.
    
    The whole way there, he'd been puzzling over her phone call and wondering  
    whether this gesture marked a real shift in her attitude towards him and  
    their partnership.  She'd been so difficult to deal with ever since the  
    discovery and loss of Emily.  Her near brush with death, before her cancer  
    went into remission, had certainly had a profound effect - he liked to  
    think that it had burned away the impurities, leaving her sharper,  
    thinner, more brittle - her eyes had never lost their sunken quality, her  
    cheeks remained hollow, her skin, always pale, had become almost  
    translucent.  But this recent tragedy had hit her much harder, in a more  
    fundamental and yet less obvious way, and being Scully, she had refused to  
    grieve openly and get through her pain to the other side of it; instead,  
    she had withdrawn in mute agony, turning a face of denial to the world -  
    even to him.  It hurt him deeply that she did not trust him enough to  
    unburden herself, that she insisted on dealing with it alone - and thus,  
    not dealing with it at all.  He could not broach the subject with her.  
    Every time he tried, she simply retreated behind glass walls to a place  
    where he could not touch her.  He worried that she had not forgiven him  
    yet for the good intentions that had paved her way to hell, for daring to  
    protect her in his own insufficient way.  But she would not speak of it,  
    and so they had simply slid farther apart.
    
    In their last case, things had been especially bad.  All of his desperate  
    attempts at humor fell flat.  Even his best grin during a particularly  
    far-fetched Rational Explanation of the Week had failed to charm her.  
    He'd gone so far as to inquire whether his demonstration of boyish agility  
    was turning her on at all, but she'd merely asked him to come down out of  
    his tree without a glimmer of shared amusement.  And yet...  And yet, when  
    she'd stumbled belatedly onto the scene after the final showdown with poor  
    Karin, she'd helped him out of the mud, her hands lingering on his body  
    with a tenderness that had taken him by surprise.  He hadn't commented on  
    it at the time, and after a few seconds she'd seemed to recall herself and  
    backed off again.  But Mulder had sensed that some spark of feeling had  
    been reignited within her for whatever reason, and had taken it as a sign  
    of hope.  Things had to get better between them.  He'd thought at the time  
    that they could hardly get worse.
    
    And yet somehow they had.  The last couple of days, Scully had been both  
    sluggish and irritable.  She had not joined him in a morning pastry or at  
    lunch, but seemed bent on spending the minimum assigned time in the same  
    room with him.  Yesterday she had actually left work early with no  
    explanation.  He supposed that he had been at least partially at fault,  
    startling her like that, but she had seemed to take it so personally.  It  
    was while surreptitiously watching her struggle into her overcoat that he  
    had been struck by how thin and worn his partner looked.  He realized  
    then that the past few weeks had been a show of strength for his benefit -  
    that she had been wounded by the events of the holidays much more deeply  
    than he had been willing to admit to himself.
    
    That night he had called her several times without getting an answer.  
    Fearing the worst, he had vacillated between charging over to her place on  
    his own and calling for backup.  A coward in the end, he had phoned Mrs.  
    Scully for some much-needed maternal advice; she had reassured him and  
    promised to check up on her daughter in the morning.  He himself had  
    been unable to sleep.  It was only after Mrs. Scully called to tell him  
    that she had spoken to Dana and would be meeting with her for lunch that  
    he had been able to relax a little, go for a swim, get back into his  
    weekend routine.  On impulse, he had left a little message on her machine:  
    "Greetings.  A humble penitent begs the forgiveness and blessing of his  
    benevolent protector, St. Scully the Enigmatic... If you decide that I  
    don't deserve to be roasted over an open flame, please call me."  She  
    hadn't called.  Until half an hour ago.  He still had no clue how she'd  
    reacted to the message, but he guessed that the fact that she was  
    still willing to speak to him was an excellent sign.
    
    Lost in these reflections, Mulder finally noticed that he had long since  
    escaped from the downpour into the entryway and was standing at Scully's  
    front door, dripping onto her welcome mat.  He lifted his hand reflexively  
    to knock, then paused.  Before he'd had a chance to return completely to  
    his surroundings, the door swung open.
    
    Scully stood before him, wearing neat forest green sweats, scrubbed clean,  
    and smelling wonderful.  Her cheeks looked flushed in the ruddy light from  
    the fireplace.  She was holding two glasses of what appeared to be white  
    wine, and by the time Mulder made the connection and realized that she had  
    clearly started without him, he was already in front of the fireplace,  
    glass in hand, as Scully took his overcoat to the bathroom to dry.  Van  
    Morrison was playing at a cozy background volume on the stereo.  He  
    recognized the distinctive piano intro and sang the first few words softly  
    aloud: "Well it's a marvelous time for a moondance..."
    
    Scully reappeared, her glass already empty.  She favored her guest with a  
    very relaxed smile and refilled from the carafe on the coffee table, then  
    melted onto the floor next to him.  "How's the wine?" she asked, almost  
    coyly.
    
    "It's fine," he answered.  It was a little dry for Mulder actually, and he  
    preferred red, but he wasn't about to complain.  He hadn't seen his  
    partner in this good a mood in what seemed like forever.  "But where are  
    the weenies and marshmallows?"
    
    Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second while she grappled with the  
    tone underlying that question, then widened.  "Try to act a little more  
    gracious, Mulder, or they'll be pulling your chestnuts out of the fire."  
    She appeared to find that idea vastly amusing.  Mulder couldn't even  
    remember the last time he'd heard her laugh.
    
    "Ouch," he winced ruefully, covering his heart with his free hand as  
    though he had been mortally wounded.  <Can I just have one more moondance  
    with you, my love?  "I didn't mean to complain.  I like the music," he  
    added before she had a chance to lay into him again.
    
    This seemed to please her.  "Yeah.  Van Morrison's one of my favorites,"  
    she mused, slurring her words almost imperceptibly.  "'Course, it doesn't  
    hurt that he's an Irish romantic of the old line."  She gazed at him for a  
    minute with a soft smile, her head tilted slightly to one side.  Then "You  
    need more wine," she announced, and started to rise less than steadily.  
    Mulder stopped her with his hand on her arm.
    
    "Let me do it," he said.  "I'll get yours too."
    
    "Okay," she fairly purred.  She was glowing with the heat of the wine and  
    the fire.  Mulder found it difficult to look at her, yet impossible not  
    to. It was as if her icy, brittle exterior had melted away over the course  
    of a few drinks, leaving her soft, rosy, almost luminous.  The bruises  
    under her eyes were no longer visible, and the sharp frown line she'd worn  
    between her eyebrows almost constantly lately had smoothed itself away.  
    She was even more unbelievably attractive than she had been before her  
    illness.  He found himself swallowing hard, his hands shaking slightly as  
    he refilled their glasses.  Mulder had never been much of a drinker,  
    although he enjoyed a good beer now and then, and had been known to resort  
    to vodka on one unusual occasion; the single glass of wine he'd  
    finished was already making him feel heated and unnervingly buoyant.  
    He knew that, in his case,  judgment was always the first thing to go.  He  
    would have to take it easy with this next glass or he'd inevitably wind up  
    doing or saying something really stupid.  Scully would be no help, that  
    much was clear.  The carafe was almost empty by the time he'd finished  
    pouring.
    
    When he finally handed her glass back, Scully smiled up at him with deep  
    affection.  "Let's have a toast," she suggested.
    
    "All right," he agreed, extending his glass.
    
    "To moonlight and a magic night," she said, clinking her glass against his  
    and nearly dropping it.  "Oops," she giggled.
    
    Mulder was trying not to laugh.  He'd never seen his partner this out  
    of control before.  It was all the more shocking in contrast to her  
    recent stone cold sobriety.  He found it unexpectedly alluring,  
    and yet at the same time, he was worried about her.  He couldn't help  
    wondering what had brought this little bout of self-indulgence on, and  
    why she had invited him over to witness it.  Trying to lighten what he  
    found a dangerously saccharine  moment, he suggested, "How about, 'to  
    partners' instead?"  He watched helplessly as her smile sagged.  "Scully,  
    are you okay?"
    
    "Yes, Mulder, *I'm fine.*"  This statement came out automatically but  
    seemed to bemuse her.  She began to laugh again, only this time on a  
    harsher, disbelieving note. "I mean, god, how else *would* I be?"  She  
    turned her face away from him, raised one hand to her forehead.  Without  
    thinking, Mulder reached out to touch her cheek, and she suddenly spun  
    back to glare at him.  "Don't you touch me, you bastard!"
    
    Mulder jerked his hand back as if he'd been slapped.  "I'm sorry, Scully."
    
    "You bastard," she slurred again.  Her face deflated and crumpled, and she  
    began to cry.  "Oh, god..."
    
    Mulder felt his own eyes prickle in response.  He reached out again, and  
    this time she allowed herself to be gathered into his arms.  He held her  
    awkwardly against his chest and stroked her ruddy hair as she sobbed and  
    hiccupped.  It was only at times like this that he realized how small and  
    fragile his partner really was under her larger-than-life professional  
    persona.  He rested his chin on the top of her head and began to rock her  
    gently back and forth.  After a few minutes, her outburst had dwindled to  
    an occasional sniffle.  Mulder continued to rock her, but finally asked  
    softly, "Do you want to talk about it?"
    
    She lifted her head as if about to answer.  Her huge blue eyes still swam  
    with unshed tears; Mulder felt himself transfixed by them despite his best  
    intentions.  He would never know which one of them moved first, but  
    suddenly he was kissing her, her lips soft and warm and inviting beneath  
    his.  She tasted like wine, naturally, but with sweet, smoky undertones  
    that beckoned him on almost against his will.  He felt himself sinking  
    deeper and deeper into a forbidden sea.  Abruptly, with a little moan, he  
    tore himself away.  He was gasping like a stranded fish.  He felt like he  
    had been on the verge of drowning.
    
    "Scully, we can't do this," he said almost angrily.
    
    "Why the hell not?" she demanded, but her shoulders were already slumping  
    in humiliation and defeat.
    
    "For one thing, Skinner would kill us-"
    
    "Oh, *screw* Skinner-"
    
    "-and because I can't do this.  Not now, not like this, after all we've  
    been through."  He didn't even hear his own words, he was already on his  
    feet, clattering through the hallway for his coat.
    
    "After all we've been through?  What have you been through, Mulder?  Huh?  
    Screw you too!"  The normally imperturbable Scully stood shrieking in the  
    middle of the living room as Mulder yanked the front door open.
    
    "I'll call you tomorrow, Scully," he said, and slammed the door behind  
    him.
    
    Once back out in the entryway, Mulder paused to take a deep breath.  His  
    heart was racing, his hands sweating.  He felt so overwhelmed and confused  
    that he was torn equally between dashing out to the car and driving home  
    as fast as it could take him, and turning right back around, dragging  
    Scully into the bedroom, or even just onto the couch, and losing himself  
    in her forever - or at least for the rest of the night.  He should have  
    known that something like this would happen if he came over tonight; he  
    should have realized it from her words, her voice, on the phone.  But no,  
    he'd been stupid.  He hadn't trusted that little instinctive warning deep  
    in his gut.  Now that he really needed it, now that every hair stood up  
    and every muscle in his body screamed for some sort of decisive action, it  
    betrayed him with silence.
    
    Fuck it.  He buttoned his coat with trembling fingers and headed out into  
    the rain, for home.
    
      
    The only problem was that he couldn't leave.  He'd left his car keys on  
    Scully's coffee table.  Mulder stood at the side of the car for a long  
    moment, swearing softly, hunched against the rain.  But it was no use.  He  
    would have to go back.  He'd try to get in and out with his keys as  
    quickly as possible and without provoking a scene.
    
    This time he had to wait quite a while after knocking.  Just as he was  
    about to resort to the doorbell, he finally heard a shuffling noise on the  
    other side of the door.  A faint voice reached him through the solid wood:  
    "What do you want, Mulder?"
    
    "I left my keys on your table," he called.  Sounds of fumbling at the  
    locks; eventually the door swung open.  Scully was standing there, hair  
    touseled, face deeply flushed.  She was barefoot. She was also still quite  
    drunk, and at least for the moment, belligerent.
    
    "Here," she slurred, flinging the keys at his chest.  He managed to catch  
    them, barely, and she started to shut the door in his face.  He stopped  
    her by wedging his shoe into the doorjamb.
    
    "Listen, Scully-" he began.
    
    She took an unsteady step forward and poked her index finger into his  
    belly.  "No, you listen, Mulder, you listen to me this time.  You never  
    listen to me!  You're always telling me, telling me what you think, what  
    to do.  Everything's about you, isn't it?  Your x-files, your office, your  
    life!"  Somehow, even completely sloshed and screaming up at him, Scully  
    managed to convey immense dignity.  "I always listen.  I trust you, I  
    support you.  Where has it gotten me?"
    
    Mulder gulped.  "Scully..."
    
    "Well, I'm sick of it, I'm sick to death of it!"  She paused for a moment  
    and blinked, swaying on her feet.  Her expression changed from rage to  
    surprise and dismay.  "Oh, god, Mulder, I don't... I don't feel so well."
    
    "Scully?"  He reached for her arm.
    
    "I'm - I think I'm-" she clapped her hand over her mouth and turned to  
    stumble down the hall to the bathroom.  Mulder heard her heaving as he  
    stepped completely inside and closed the door.  He was drenched.  Maybe  
    he'd stay just a little while, to make sure that Scully was going to be  
    all right.  He'd check on her now, hang up his coat.
    
    Scully was kneeling on the cold tiled floor, slumped against the toilet  
    with one hand covering her eyes.  Mulder draped his sodden coat over the  
    shower rail and crouched quietly beside her.  "You okay there, Scully?  
    Can I get you some water?"  She waved him faintly away without moving her  
    head.  "Let's get you cleaned up at least," he suggested.
    
    "Go away," she muttered, then groaned and hunched over the bowl again.  
    Mulder stroked the back of her neck soothingly until she finished.  Her  
    nape was silky soft; the flaming stray tendrils of her hair curled  
    delicately around his roughened fingertips.  Mulder was somewhat disgusted  
    with himself when he realized that under his show of concern and  
    solicitude, he was developing an insistent erection.  Certainly it was not  
    the first of the evening.  His balls were beginning to ache.
    
    Scully had stopped retching.  Her blue eyes were dulled and bloodshot as  
    she gazed unseeingly into space, breathing heavily.  Mulder reached for  
    some Kleenex, wet it in the sink, and gently wiped her face and mouth, his  
    fingers lingering at the corners of her lips longer than strictly  
    necessary.  Even now, sick as a dog and well on her way to a massive  
    hangover, Scully looked wonderful to him.  He could smell her shampoo and  
    her own faint musk even under the pervasive stench of alcohol and bile.  
    He wanted her so badly.  On a sudden impulse, he brought his face closer  
    to the nape of her neck and inhaled deeply.
    
    "Mulder, stop sniffing me," she ordered, closing her eyes wearily.
    
    He blushed.  He hadn't expected her to notice.  "Sorry."
    
    "I think I better go to bed," she said, as if she hadn't heard.  She  
    placed one hand on the toilet rim and gripped his shoulder with the other  
    to pull herself to her feet.  Mulder encouraged her to lean on him all the  
    way to her bedroom, then helped her to sit down on the edge of the bed.  
    She looked frail and exhausted, all the drunken vivacity he'd witnessed  
    earlier having drained away with her sickness.
    
    "Lie down," he told her, and she obediently lay back and swung her  
    legs up onto the mattress.  Mulder hesitated, wondering whether he dared  
    to do the thing - well, *one* of the things - he wanted most at that  
    moment, to climb into bed with her, wrap his arms around her tiny frame,  
    and breathe in the scent of her skin all night.
    
    "Mulder," Scully mumbled petulantly, "turn off the lights."  He had  
    to smile.  She sounded like she was about six.  He entwined his fingers  
    with her small ones as he leaned over to peck her chastely on the forehead  
    - well, as chastely as he could with a painful erection pushing against  
    his jeans.  She squinted up at him for a second, on the verge of  
    saying something, then sighed deeply and turned away, rolling onto her  
    side.
    
    Mulder swallowed hard and gently untangled their fingers.  He was an  
    asshole to have even considered crawling into bed with her, taking  
    advantage of her current state.  He would grab a blanket and go sleep on  
    the couch.  That way he'd be around if she needed him, but he wouldn't  
    have to suffer the exquisite torture of having her so close, yet so  
    unattainable.
    
      
    Mulder half-dreamed, locked in a cloudy state of semiconsciousness in  
    which he lay dimly aware of the flicker of firelight.  Scully was nestled  
    snugly against his side, hair tangled, breathing evenly.  Her silken legs  
    pressed against his under the blanket.  This was a good dream.  Mulder  
    smiled drowsily, rubbed his cheek against the fragrant warmth of that red  
    hair.  Scully had him pinned to the couch, flat on his back, one arm  
    crooked behind his head, the other limp across his belly.  He was having  
    trouble with his eyes - his view of the ceiling kept fading in and out.  
    But Mulder hardly felt in a position to complain.
    
    Then Scully mumbled, shifted against him, threw one slender arm over his  
    bare chest.  An electric tingle flared through his groin, and his eyes  
    tore themselves open.  He was lying on Scully's couch with a  
    half-erection, one hand tucked into the waistband of his boxers, and there  
    was Scully herself, sprawled against him, deeply asleep in her rumpled  
    sweatshirt.  Mulder froze.  What the hell was going on here?  It took a  
    few seconds for him to remember what he was doing in his partner's  
    apartment.  But even after that, his head swam in confusion.  What was she  
    doing here?  When had she slipped out of her own room and crept under the  
    covers beside him?  He was shivering despite the heat of the dying fire  
    and the radiant weight of the unconscious Scully, and clammy sweat filled  
    the creases in his knees, his elbows, his forehead.  His palms were slick  
    with it.  His heart seemed to have crawled right up out of his chest  
    and was pounding urgently at the base of his throat to be let out.
    
    Mulder took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down.  He knew  
    that, tired as he was, he would never be able to return to sleep with  
    Scully draped half over him.  He would have to try to get up without  
    waking her, maybe transfer himself to the guest room.  But not just now.  
    Although this situation was so tantalizing as to be almost painful, Mulder  
    stayed put, mesmerized by the rhythm of his partner's soft snoring, so  
    faint as to be barely audible to anyone not actually pressed against her  
    body.  He lay there for some minutes, watching the subtle rise and fall of  
    her under the sweatshirt, studying the red-gold lashes that curled against  
    her cheeks, the lax rosebud mouth, lips half-parted as if in expectation  
    of a kiss.  Asleep, Scully looked twenty years younger, an innocent girl  
    basked in parental love and untouched by darkness or fear.
    
    Then, even as he gazed wistfully at her face, Scully's expression changed  
    from deep tranquility to a sudden anxiety, lips and eyebrows drawing  
    tightly together, eyes beginning to roll uneasily back and forth behind  
    their fluttering lids.  She began to whimper softly from deep in her  
    throat; her head jerked slightly, and then abruptly her entire body went  
    rigid.  A few seconds and one hoarse, inarticulate cry later, she was  
    awake, trembling and wild-eyed.  For a moment she didn't seem to recognize  
    him as she struggled to make the transition from her nightmare to her  
    current location.  She was obviously confused and shaken, but didn't seem  
    at all embarrassed about the fact that she and her partner were entwined  
    on her couch in their underwear.  Then she blinked hard, her eyes filled  
    with tears, and she clung wordlessly to Mulder and rested her cheek on his  
    chest, her ragged gasps slowing and stilling to normal.  With some  
    difficulty, Mulder managed to extricate his left arm and then cautiously  
    wrapped it around her and gently rubbed the point of her shoulder through  
    the fabric of her sweatshirt.
    
    "You okay, Scully?" he asked at length, when she seemed more herself -  
    sleepy and half-drunk, but no longer terrified.
    
    "I had a bad dream," she told him in a small, serious voice, like a little  
    kid who'd snuck into her parents' bedroom for companionship at some  
    ungodly hour of the night.  Her cheek still lay pressed to Mulder's chest,  
    so that he could feel the faint vibration of her words, the movements of  
    her jaw.  It was sort of ticklish, and definitely arousing.  You really  
    are sick, Mulder told himself, resolving to ignore the sensation.
    
    "Do you want to tell me what it was about?" he asked her quietly, dropping  
    his hand to her waist, but taking great care to keep it above the  
    hem of the sweatshirt.
    
    Scully blinked again, frowning a little.  "I was... I was in a boat," she  
    stated softly.  "I was sitting in this rowboat, drifting out to sea... an'  
    I saw you, standing on a pier, an' you were shouting something... but I  
    can't hear you.  You're going like this-" Scully attempted to demonstrate,  
    cupping her hands around her mouth, but her elbow slid off Mulder's side  
    and her sharp little chin dug into his chest.  "Oops," she giggled  
    drowsily.  "Sorry."
    
    "Is that all?" Mulder asked, shifting his hips slightly.  God, this was  
    killing him.  He felt ready to crawl out of his own skin with  
    frustration.  "That doesn't sound so scary."
    
    She stopped laughing and looked him unsteadily in the eye.  "I fell in,"  
    she said gravely.  "I stood up and the boat tipped over and I fell in, and  
    I couldn't breathe.  I tried to swim but something was holding my ankle."  
    She began to shiver.
    
    "Shh, it's all right, I've got you," Mulder soothed her.  "What was  
    holding on to your ankle?"
    
    "I..." she closed her eyes tightly as if to block out the memory.  "I  
    looked down-" she opened her eyes and gazed straight in front of her,  
    through Mulder, as if he, this room, had ceased to exist for her.  Her  
    lips were trembling in a soft, vulnerable way that Mulder found positively  
    maddening.  "There was a... a rope tied to m-m-my ankle, and at the  
    other end was, was... No, it's... a coffin.  But it's not a grown-up sized  
    coffin, it's a little coffin.  A little girl's coffin."
    
    Mulder closed his eyes in guilty empathy.  Of course she was still having  
    nightmares about poor little Emily.  She never talked about her daughter,  
    never alluded to the events of their New Year's reunion in San Diego, but  
    clearly she had been deeply distressed by the experience.  But Scully  
    wasn't finished.  "I stopped trying to swim up," she said in a voice so  
    low that Mulder had to strain to hear her over the crackle of the fire.  
    "I swam down to look inside.  And then it opened.  And a little girl was  
    sitting there and staring at me..."  Her head drooped suddenly, her eyes  
    drifting shut.
    
    "I know," Mulder said, rocking her gently back and forth.  "It was Emily."
    
    "No," she said, opening her eyes briefly in surprise.  "No it wasn't.  It  
    was Melissa..." her voice trailed off, and she gave a little sigh and  
    nestled more firmly against his body.  Scully was asleep.
    
    Mulder lay perfectly still for a long time, staring into the the shifting  
    shadows, caught in a tangle of conflicting thoughts and feelings.  In the  
    end, no closer to a resolution but determined to put the night's  
    disturbing revelations away from him at least until daybreak, he squirmed  
    out of the half-circle of Scully's arm without waking her.  He made sure  
    that she was well-covered before fleeing into the guest room, locking the  
    door, and collapsing onto the bed.  He was exhausted, but too  
    upset, wired, and yes, horny, to fall asleep right away.  He soothed  
    himself, trying not to think of her lying in the next room, curled up on  
    the sofa with her shapely legs tucked under her like a cat.  Eventually he  
    succeeded in drifting off, visions of her small, solemn, infinitely  
    beloved face following him into uneasy dreams.  
    


	3. Transition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conclusion of the "Tautology" storyline, the morning after "Tautology Part II: Asymmetry." Time for that little heart-to-heart that Scully's been putting off for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks: To Linda for allowing me to relive the vagaries of college  
> vicariously, Eric for the Paula Cole CD, Kirsten for being ever-eager to  
> watch an episode we've already seen five times, and last but certainly not  
> least, Becca - you got your happy ending, dear! (Sort of.) And how about  
> those little moments? :)
> 
> Dedication: To Celia, my first writing partner, and to Jennif, founder of  
> the Writing Conservatory and a truly gifted author
    
    
    Opening her eyes had been a mistake.  Even blinking exacerbated the  
    sensations in her head, which felt like one giant pulsating toothache.  
    She was definitely feeling the effects of the amount of wine she'd drunk  
    last night.  And her bladder was about to explode.  Dana struggled to sit  
    up and groaned softly - somehow, sometime last night, she had ended up  
    sprawled on her living room couch, and her neck had stiffened at an  
    awkward angle.  Gingerly, she uncurled herself, stood up, and began to  
    make her slow and painful way to the bathroom, wincing as every cautious  
    step jarred her aching head.  At least she wasn't throwing up, although  
    her mouth was parched and thick with the aftertaste of bile.
    
    Dana made it to the bathroom at last, peed, then sat there for a few  
    minutes with her head in her hands trying to pull herself together.  The  
    floor chilled her bare feet, raising goosebumps on her pale legs.  She  
    apparently hadn't quite managed to change into her pajamas because all she  
    had on was her sweatshirt from the previous day.  What did Dad tell you  
    about drinking on an empty stomach when you were thirteen? she chided  
    herself disgustedly.  When the room stopped spinning, she splashed some  
    water on her face, cupped her palms and rinsed her mouth out, regarded  
    herself in the mirror.  She looked more human than she felt, but just  
    barely.
    
    The cold water had woken her up some.  Dana began to try to reconstruct  
    the events of the previous night.  She remembered calling Mulder and  
    nervously making her way through several glasses of wine before he  
    arrived.  She had a vague idea that she'd yelled at him at one point, and  
    an even vaguer idea that they'd... Dana frowned.  No.  She must have  
    imagined it.  Mulder wouldn't have kissed her.  Would he?  Oh god.  She  
    supposed she would have to ask when she spoke to him again.  If he was  
    still speaking to her.  Well, no time like the present.  She would call  
    him.  She wondered if he had a hangover to match hers.
    
    Dana shuffled into her bedroom for a pair of sweatpants and found her  
    matching bottoms on the carpet beside her bed.  She pulled them on,  
    holding on to the footboard for balance.  Then she wandered back into the  
    hall.  Something fluttered near her awareness as she neared the end of  
    the passage.   She paused, puzzled.  The door to the spare room was  
    shut.  Dana never kept it closed; it tended to get musty.  Still  
    half-drunk and half-asleep, Dana reached out to take care of that minor  
    housekeeping task.
    
    It was locked.  Dana fumbled at the knob for several seconds before that  
    fact penetrated her alcohol-fogged brain.  Locked.  She hadn't locked it.  
    It could only be locked from the inside.  Which meant that someone was  
    inside.  And that someone could only be... "Oh, god," she muttered, and  
    slumped against the door.  "What is *he* still doing here?"  She leaned  
    over and peered into the living room.  Now she could see the evidence of  
    his stay, right under her nose: his loafers by the couch, his rumpled  
    jeans draped over her armchair, leather belt dangling... But if he'd left  
    his clothes here, and yet apparently had ended up in the guest room while  
    she slept on the couch... Dana groaned.  Thinking hurt too much.
    
    She decided that the best course of action at this point would be to  
    replenish her electrolytes and then find a quiet corner and lie very, very  
    still for the rest of the day.  Let Mulder come out when he felt like it.  
    If she were really lucky, he'd leave without disturbing her, and if she  
    were extraordinarily lucky he would remember even less of the previous  
    night's events than she did.  Then again, she now was able to recall  
    that she hadn't left that much wine for him.  But never mind that.  On to  
    the kitchen.  Dana dug through the fridge and found an old bottle of  
    orange Gatorade and an even older lemon.  She was squeezing the last of  
    the juice into her mug when Mulder appeared in the doorway.  He was  
    wearing a pair of faded green boxers, and his hair stuck out in all  
    directions.  "Morning, Scully."
    
    Dana winced.  He hadn't spoken that loudly, but she could feel his words  
    rebounding off the tender insides of her skull nevertheless.  "Have a  
    little pity," she begged in a low, pained voice.
    
    "Sorry," Mulder answered, looking anything but.  "What'cha got there?"  He  
    leaned over to peer into Dana's mug.
    
    "It's an old med school trick," she told him.  "Dana Scully's Miracle  
    Hangover Remedy.  Want some?"
    
    "What's in there?"
    
    "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.  They drum you out of  
    the AMA for revealing trade secrets like this."
    
    Mulder poked out his lower lip in a mock pout.  "Fine.  Whatever."  He  
    strolled to the refrigerator.  "Christ," he said.  "I'd almost forgotten  
    that you were such a health nut.  I bet you don't even have any bacon."
    
    "Nope."
    
    "Or eggs."
    
    "Nope."
    
    "I'm going to order a pizza."
    
    "Oh god, Mulder," Dana blanched.  "How can you even think about pizza?"
    
    "Hair of the dog, Scully?"  Mulder crossed back, lifted the mug out of her  
    hands, and sniffed.
    
    She shook her head and imagined that she could feel the pickled remains of  
    her brains sloshing around.  "It's a myth."
    
    "Mmmm.  I wouldn't know, but Dad always swore by it."
    
    "Mine too," Dana sighed.  "But it's strictly anecdotal evidence, whereas  
    this remedy is based on sound scientific principles and-"
    
    Mulder had taken a quick sip and made a face.  "-and tastes like someone  
    pissed in Gatorade," he grimaced, and handed the mug back to her.  
    "Enjoy."
    
    Dana still felt pretty awful, but found her mouth quirking up in a grin in  
    spite of herself.  She'd missed this so much.  It was just like old times,  
    this moment, sitting around on a Sunday morning, chatting around the  
    kitchen table, deftly slinging harmless banter back and forth.  She  
    realized that in trying to deepen her intimacy with Mulder since her  
    cancer, she'd only succeeded in smothering what rapport they'd had.  This  
    level of interaction allowed him to be comfortable with her, and who was  
    she to ask for more?  Well, wait a minute, who wasn't she?  His best  
    friend, his partner, his Sancho Panza... but never his Dulcinea.  She felt  
    sweat break out on her forehead and wondered if she were about to be sick.
    
    Mulder, oblivious, was dialing out for delivery after all.  "Yeah, medium,  
    with everything," he was saying.  "And Diet Coke."  He hung up and turned  
    back to her.  "You okay there, Scully?"
    
    "I'm fine, Mulder."  Dana almost choked on the words.
    
    "Okay... Um, I guess I'll go get some clothes on."
    
    "You do that."
    
    "Because I know what an effort it's been for you to keep your hands off me  
    like this," he smirked, sauntering out.
    
    If you only knew, Mulder.  If you only knew.  Dana drained her mug, then  
    wobbled over to the sink to rinse it out.  She wasn't sure how much more  
    of this she could take.  At least it had cleared up.  Dana started to  
    laugh.  It hurt, but she couldn't stop.  Tears began flowing down her  
    cheeks.  She had just lost the only child she'd ever had, her relationship  
    with Mulder was so pregnant with secrets and lies that it was on the verge  
    of exploding under the pressure, she'd devoted the best years of her life  
    to a man with the emotional depth and stability of a twelve-year-old, the  
    only reason she hadn't attempted suicide was that the planning took too  
    much energy, and she was grateful that the sun had come out.  She had to  
    brace herself against the sink with one hand as she muffled her sobs of  
    laughter with the other.  She wondered if she were truly going mad at  
    last.
    
    Mulder found her like that when he returned to the kitchen, this time in  
    jeans and her favorite pink t-shirt and hair combed.  "Scully?"  He leaned  
    over her shoulder to peer at her face.  "What is it?"
    
    Dana collected herself almost immediately.  "Nothing."
    
    "Bullshit," he replied politely.  "What's going on?"  When she didn't  
    answer, turning her face away, he persisted, "Dammit, Scully, you've been  
    acting strangely ever since you went home to California for Christmas."
    
    "I don't want to discuss it right now."
    
    "Well, when the hell do you want to discuss it?  You never smile anymore,  
    you've dropped two dress sizes and don't think I haven't noticed just  
    because I respected your privacy-"
    
    She gave a short, bitter laugh.  "Yeah, my mom told me how much you  
    respected my *privacy*."
    
    "Scully, I'm sorry about that.  Look at me."  He touched her chin, turned  
    her face gently towards him.  "I didn't know what else to do.  You weren't  
    talking to me.  I was ready to ask Skinner to give you some time off."
    
    Now she was staring at him.  "You're serious.  You think I can't do my  
    job?"
    
    "Goddammit, Scully, I didn't say that.  But look at yourself.  Maybe you  
    could use a break."
    
    About to protest, she hesitated, and Mulder raised his eyebrows in quiet  
    acknowledgment of her uncertainty.  Then she shook her head, banishing the  
    thought.  Mulder, I can barely even make it through the weekend right now,  
    and you want me to go off on some kind of goddamn vacation?  "I have more  
    time off now than I know what to do with," was what she said.
    
    "Yeah, but you could get away somewhere, to think-"
    
    "To think?" She couldn't repress a disbelieving snicker.  If I ever really  
    stopped to think about it, I'd turn around and walk the other way and  
    never look back.
    
    "Yeah."  He squeezed her hands gently, and Dana wondered with a start just  
    when he had taken hold of them.  "Get out of Washington, go somewhere  
    peaceful for a while.  Think about what you want."
    
    I know what I want, Mulder.  I want you, and some semblance of a normal  
    life.  How hard is that to understand?  I want a little boy with roguish  
    hazel eyes and scraped knees, and a little girl with red hair and freckles  
    in patched overalls, and a fitting end to this impossible quest we're on.  
    And as long as I'm dreaming, I want my father and Missy back.  And Emily.  
    She felt a lump rise to her throat.  You will NOT, repeat, NOT break down  
    and start crying in front of Mulder.  No.  He can't do anything about  
    those things.  But I want I want I want
    
    "I want," she found herself saying, "to be your partner."  She looked him  
    almost defiantly in the eye.
    
    "Scully.  You ARE my partner."
    
    "In name only."  Now that she'd finally brought it up, she would not back  
    down.
    
    Mulder let go of her hands and straightened up from his easy slouch  
    against the counter.  His eyes darkened; his face lost all expression.  
    Dana had seen this reaction too many times not to know what it meant - it  
    was the wall going down between them, the slamming of a door in her face.  
    But this time he wouldn't get away from her that easily.  This time he was  
    going to listen to her.
    
    "Mulder, I've worked with you for five years.  And I have followed you,  
    trusted you, believed in you.  And I know I don't need to remind you of  
    the people we've lost in this quest for your truth.  Your dad, Melissa,  
    a little girl that I barely had time to know but an eternity to mourn..."  
    She took a deep breath.  Mulder was gazing at the floor, arms folded, his  
    face a stony mask, but she knew that he was clinging to every word.
    
    "There is no justice, I told you that once...  I know that you would give  
    your life for me any day of the week and twice on Sundays.  I don't  
    blame you for their deaths.  But what I do blame you for are your actions  
    with respect to me.  I follow you, you ditch me.  I trust you, you hide  
    your discoveries from me and lie to me.  I believe in you, and you refuse  
    to take my ideas seriously, you refuse to take *me* seriously.  You treat  
    me like a sidekick.  Not a partner."
    
    "It was never just about the desk, was it?" Mulder stated quietly, raising  
    deeply troubled eyes to her at last.
    
    She pressed her lips together.  "No."
    
    "Scully.  Why didn't you say anything about this before?"
    
    Because I was afraid that you already knew.  And just didn't care.  "I  
    guess I just kept expecting it to be obvious.  Common human decency and  
    courtesy.  You're a smart boy, Mulder.  I didn't think I had to spell it  
    out for you."
    
    "R-E-S-P-E-C-T?" he suggested, then looked at her quickly to make sure she  
    knew he was teasing, but at the same time completely serious.
    
    Dana tried to look stern, but ended up biting her lip in a futile attempt  
    to stifle the oncoming grin.  He was impossible.  Meeting her  
    partner's eyes, she tilted her head in silent acceptance of his implicit  
    apology.
    
    Wordlessly Mulder held out his arms to her, and she went to him and  
    wrapped her arms around his waist, laying her cheek against his chest.  He  
    smelled ridiculously good, as always.  Mulder encircled her shoulders with  
    one arm and stroked her hair gently with the other.  "Friends?" he  
    murmured, his lips moving against the top of her head, along the part.
    
    Hangover forgotten, Dana felt herself floating in a new, deep tranquility.  
    "Friends," she answered.  She could leave Mulder and the FBI anytime she  
    chose.
    
    But not today.  
    


End file.
